


The Right Order

by glasscaskets



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Handy J, Love, Romance, Vaginal Fingering, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff, but like shitty tony romance, water fowl imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 04:35:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5991861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glasscaskets/pseuds/glasscaskets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’d thought she’d give him a blowjob, because it was Valentine’s Day and they’d had a nice dinner and were going to Get Over Their Hang Ups and Touch Each Other.</p><p>OR: Tony and Pepper have a first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Right Order

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prufrock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prufrock/gifts).



> This is dedicated to prufrock, who suggested I call it "Valentine's dick." 
> 
> Otherwise, enjoy my deep seated love of awkward first times.

The first time she ever saw him naked, it was three weeks after he hired her, when she had to help him persuade an overzealous one night stand to leave the house after she decided they were really in love, or that she wanted some of his hair, or that she was pregnant, or that she was going to plant a bomb in his house for peace/the environment. One of those. She was fully prepared, at any rate, for the first to be the last.

Later, she would go through stages where she wished she’d see him naked less (the Great Cocaine Relapse of ’97 and his 2001 Is the Proper Beginning of the Millennium Let’s Go Out In Style gala/bacchanalia stand out), or more (after she rearranged the mechanical heart he built himself she found herself longing to see him that stripped again, just so she could cover him up, and long before that once she found him dazing his way out of an all-nighter in just pants and an ugly wifebeater, and he’d said “morning” the way she imagined you’d say “morning” to somebody you loved, and had loved for a long time, and the idea of being in just underthings and early morning grime with Tony Stark seemed momentarily achingly plausible). Neither stage prepared her for the reality, which was that Tony wanted to take his clothes off In the Proper Order.

She discovered this when he, in his boxers and dress shirt, scurried away from her when she tried to slip a finger along his hips and push those ridiculous $180 boxers down. She’d thought she’d give him a blowjob, because it was Valentine’s Day and they’d had a nice dinner and were going to Get Over Their Hang Ups and Touch Each Other, but now he shies away and she crosses her arms across her chest, her blouse unbuttoned and flapping around uselessly.

“Sorry,” he says, “it’s just—you know, there’s an order.” 

“What.” 

He sighs and gestures patiently to himself, and to her, and then just, “You know. Pants, shirt, underwear, it’s. It’s just how you do it.” 

“I’m trying to _blow you_!” she bursts out, before she can stop herself, because it has been twelve long years of wasting her degree in Public Health and of busting her ass for this strange twitchy little dude, who once drunkenly and apparently sincerely told her she was a better caretaker than his mother after he saw her watering a plant, and because he’s the most utterly ridiculous man, and because he forgot to pay her for almost all of 2003 and made up for it by buying her a compact, ungodly ugly yellow Jetta that looked like, in Happy’s words, a bad thing had happened to a bumblebee. And because she was spending her Valentine’s Day with him, and not with Omar the beautiful jazz pianist with the hands to show for it or Edwin the bisexual lawyer who took her to Per Se and then ate her out while he knelt in a hot tub on the roof of a hotel and she sat with her feet in the water and a goddamn Cosmopolitan in her hand, and not Olly Harris from high school, who at their ten-year reunion told her sweetly how much he’d admired her drive in high school and who worked in San Francisco and lived in a house that was always in magazines and would probably die for the chance to know if the high school era rumors that her curtains matched her then flaming-red drapes, and not any of the incredibly lovely and beautiful men she could have spent this night with, but with him, Tony, who was looking at the space between her breasts like it had never occurred to him that the bra was the reason they had so much goddamn _perk_. 

“Oh,” he says, stupidly. “Thanks?” 

She thinks this means she should carry on with what she was going to do, but he stops her again, grabbing her wrist and saying “Wait, okay, just a minute,” and closing the distance between them, which has always been so buzzing with _yes please more of you_ , and kisses her, and she won’t ever quite get over this, because he kisses the way he builds, not the way he talks, so he holds her face with both hands and does everything deliberately, like the exact formula for her mouth + his can be obtained with just the right attention to obscure, sparkling chemical detail, and his stupid goatee scrapes just a little bit against her chin because it’s _him_ , kissing _her_.

“So,” she says, a little flushed when he pulls away and tilts his chin down so he’s looking up at her, bizarrely puppy-dog and _oh, Tony_ , “order?” 

But she knows it already, because Tony, for all he is a force of chaos in the world, needs order to press him into place, has routines for everything, spends three hours on an omelet because it has to be _right_ , and so of course: pants, shirt, underwear. So she sheds her blouse easily, lets the air of the room prick her arms and lets herself bask in the hungry way Tony is watching her. She raises her hands to unhook her bra and he says “Wait,” awkward, and goes around to the other side of her to undo it. 

“It’s a bra,” she says, because she can’t think what else to say, but she looks down at the floor and smiles, smiles at the puddle of his pants on the floor and hers next to them, and gathers her hair off the back of her neck. It’s like a less romantic version of all those movie scenes where men clasp women’s necklaces for them, not least because the last time she let him handle a piece of jewelry he hung it off a light switch and forgot about it and she found it in a drawer containing mostly washers and stray bits of wire over a year later. 

“I know that,” he says, just slightly stung, and then it’s unhooked and he’s pushing it off, letting his hands spread across her ribs and up to catch what the bra is dropping, and his hands are always warm, probably because they never stop moving, and she leans forward easily, letting herself fill up his hands and letting the warmth and its implicit possessiveness settle in her belly, and then, of course, he’s moving again, hands squeezing and kneading and coaxing her nipples between callouses, and it’s making her whole body hum, because it’s not just hands, it’s _his_ hands, the ones she’s admired since she was hired, and then his mouth is on her shoulder, working its way in, these tiny kisses, the kind of tiny, delicate thing you wouldn’t think a man like Tony could do, the kind of thing he does all the time. 

He kisses his way up her neck and finds her jaw and then her ear and she jumps and says “ass” and turns around, so her bare chest is pressed to his clothed one, so her arms can go around his neck and her thigh can push between his and work some magic, because if he gets to drive her so crazy so fast, she can return the favor. 

She runs her fingers through his hair and smiles at the happy tiny noise he makes at that, and lets him keep kissing her neck and collarbone, and then he says, “You’ve got freckles down here,” and she wants to say something clever or cute and instead she just says, “I know,” and he looks up at her and gives her a grin that’s almost hangdog but cuter, more genuinely delighted, and plants a kiss squarely on her nipple.

“You’re weird,” she says.

“Sorry,” he says, surprising her, then adds, “but you did know that,” and then shrugs off his own shirt, and she’s pleased, at least, that they’re ticking along in the same order now, on the same track. 

There’s just the faintest blue glue coming from behind his undershirt—this isn’t one of the ones he’s cut a hole in, because if he wears his weakness like a shield then he thinks nobody’ll dare touch him—and she smiles a little at the cool light it casts on her own chest, and making sure he can see that she’s smiling she reaches down to put a hand finally beneath the waistband of those damn boxers, and cranes her face up to kiss him as she does, because the shirt is thin, and their skin is close, and the odd shape of his reactor presses into her breasts and she likes it, she likes that she can push further into him and distort herself on him a bit, and she hooks an arm around his neck and presses up against him like she’s hoping they’ll fuse. 

 

Pepper is clean and cool and crisp, and she has long, thin fingers with immaculate nails. She has the kind of hands Tony always wanted, delicate but strong, perfectly _defined_ , like a Roman statue’s perfect white marble hands.

Tony handles Pepper’s perfect delicate marble strong immaculate hand wriggling under his boxers and taking hold of his half-hard dick with all the grace and finesse of a water fowl with its ass on fire.

Why this is the image that comes to his head, he couldn’t say, but he’s picturing some kind of ugly swan smoking profusely from the hind feathers and squawking and thinks this is probably exactly how his brain would physically manifest, just now, if it could do so. 

He tries to stop thinking about swans and start thinking about Pepper, who is kissing him insistently now, crushing herself against his chest in a way that might not be entirely comfortable, naked save for her adorable little blue panties and with her palm weighing his _dick_ , and now her hand is moving and something right between Tony’s pelvis and his belly writhes like

shit

like a very upset water fowl

 

Tony makes a very surprised noise when she starts to jerk him off, and she loves that, and wants his stupid _Godfather_ extra wifebeater gone and she breaks the kiss just to say “Off,” and Tony, bless him, spasms his way through pulling off his undershirt while she slowly runs her hand up and down his cock, and he’s acting like nobody ever touched him down there before he’s so twitchy and he stammers something about sorry and cold and metal and she realizes he means the stupid arc reactor and she says “It’s not cold, Tony,” and then speeds up her hand so

 

he’s gonna cum if she doesn’t slow down, and he’d really like to not be spent for the night by 9:30 on Valentine’s Day, and so he twists away, says “Easy,” hopes that was cool, and leans in to kiss her again, cups her breasts and just marvels at the lovely full feeling in his hands, like they were designed to exactly fill his palms, and how they’re so soft and delicate with something firm and perfect at their base, and he must remember to pull out that old anatomy book and figure out exactly what makes these things so perfect and he must not think about how confusingly nice it is to know his erection is pressing into her thigh, which like her hands is statuesque and perfect and even if there are freckles and a few errant pimples there they still seem perfect to him, too perfect, and the brief image of that same thigh clenched to keep rhythm against his almost has him cumming, and to keep this from getting too unfair he slides one hand down over her ribcage and long flat stomach to dip beneath the band of her underwear, and this requires more finesse than what she was doing, and he tells himself to concentrate and remembers what a boy once told him about fingerbanging a girl when he was in high school, and if that isn’t the worst thing he’s ever thought while attempting to do something out of genuine love and kindness, he isn’t sure what is, but at least he is no longer thinking about swans, and he remembers the boy said _watch your nails and make a c’mere movement_ , and the whole thing had just been a trick because they didn’t think Tony, at age twelve, knew what a pussy or clit was, or what fingerbanging was, and here he was, close to thirty years later, hoping that advice was sound.

Tony has fingerbanged girls. Just, not a lot of them.

He runs his hand as delicately as he can through the wiry frontline of pubes before he brushes across some errant wetter ones, and thinks that he can work with this, and spends awhile just getting the lay of the land, trying to listen over his own roaring heartbeat and her shallow breath in his ear for the moments when she really reacts, and since it wouldn’t appear she’s got a Braille map down there he thinks to hell with it and navigates until his thumb is on what he hopes to god is her clit. 

It probably is, because when he moves his thumb a little bit she jumps and leans forward a bit and says “Okay, okay, easy,” and he doesn’t need to be told twice. He can go slow. 

He pulls back a little, uses her underwear as a bit of a guide and tips his middle finger up just a bit, to skim the very very lovely warm softness waiting there, and discovers his sort of accidental teasing is working when she says “oh” very softly and, he can’t help it, adorably, up against his ear, so he keeps doing what he’s doing with what he hopes is something approaching a rhythm until he lips on his neck are joined by the scraping edges of her teeth—her perfect teeth—and her takes the hint to let his thumb finger her clit again, let his middle finger find a more permanent spot, and they’re grinding into one another at particular places, the casing of his reactor is going to leave a mark on her breast, and this thought thrills him just as much as the insistent push of her thigh against his erection, and she says “Oh, Tony, wait,” and he withdraws his hand against the front of her underwear, flushing.

“Just a lil too hard,” she says, breathily, and kisses the corner of his jaw, and it’s affectionate, it’s _nuzzling_ , and the time it would seem has come to use his spare hand to shove his boxers off and step out of them and bring that hand up to run across Pepper’s bare back, reverently.

 

His hand on her back and the other cupping the damp warmth in her underwear makes her feel completely contained, happily caught between his hands, all of her heat and light glimmering there, and it fills her up with a hunger that roars like running water, Niagara Falls, she wants to melt into him, so she hooks her hands around his neck and trips him backwards against the 

 

bed, and she’s dragging him down, and somehow his hand is running down her thigh and the band of her underwear is caught on his wrist so the panties are dragging too, down one thigh than the other, and the sloppiness of it is so contrary to Pepper, so busted open, cracked, exposed, like he could crawl inside her, and 

 

normally Pepper doesn’t like PIV on the first try or even the second, wants to let a guy prove his dexterity elsewhere before they align so thoroughly, but she trusts him, wants to slot together like a toy with him and fit together like they were made for each other.

 

Her blue panties are still caught between her shins when he slides, with her perfect hand’s patient aid, inside of her, and everything is like liquid sunshine or honey and loud and bright and perfect in every spot they make contact, and her hands come up and grip his shoulders and her thighs are doing something marvelous and squeezing and he remembers to move

 

inside her, and he is moving in her, it’s him and he’s filling her up and his back relaxes at once and his head falls to her sternum and his stupid beard prickles her so perfectly as he drops a hundred more tiny kisses across her chest and up the side of her breast until he’s sucking, suddenly, reverently, and it makes her feel like he’s yanking something air-light and golden right out of her into himself, and it’s perfect,

 

she’s perfect, and he’s inside her, fitting inside, and one elbow is on the bed and with the other hand he wanders down, finds her perfect soft thigh, wiggles for an in to maybe press the pad of one finger right

 

on her clit, goddamn him it’s a lovely building golden pressure

 

and she makes a noise and it’s not even so turned on as it is entirely intimate and he’s going to explode

 

and then she knows he’s about to cum and she wants him to, wants it messy and she never wants things messy, wants him to just let go

 

right inside her and his neck spasms a bit and holy shit just the smell of her, he loves her,

 

“I love you,” he pants, just as he comes, and then plants his face in her neck,

 

which smells like perfume but also sweat and sex-damp hair and his sheets and her detergent and she’s got freckles on her shoulders and a tiny skin tag on her neck and he loves her so much.

 

She wiggles away before he falls asleep, to take a piss (she hasn’t done it without a condom since college, good god), and clean off a bit, and not think too hard about that he said he loved her because she knew that, she thinks.

 

When she comes back he’s still face down on the bed, buckass naked, and just holds up one arm enough for her to burrow under. It’s maybe 10, and maybe in awhile they’ll get restless, they can watch a movie and eat leftover pad thai maybe, maybe still naked or maybe in pajamas or maybe shell put on his shirt, and maybe he’ll wear a bathrobe, and he can kiss her cheek like a dorky old househusband in a Norman Rockwell painting, and for now she’s warming the same little circle of skin on his shoulder with her breathing and it’s so nice, and he said he loved her, which he should worry about, probably, but she knew that, he thinks.


End file.
